


Boys Only Want Love if it's Torture

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Finale spoilers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:57:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3922018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>spoilers for the finale! </p>
<p>The Dark One can be summoned if one holds the dagger in his one hand, but why doesn't Killian do just that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys Only Want Love if it's Torture

**Boys Only Want Love if it's Torture**

His dreams that night are terrible. 

Killian knew it, he _knew_ that she loved him, but somehow hearing it pour from her lips in that moment was wrong, so very wrong. He didn't need to hear it, he really didn't. He'd thought she was going to say it the moment of their reunion and when she didn't, when her words of thanks replaced what she had meant to say, he felt a slight disappointment, yes, but there was also relief; relief in that he did not wish her to profess feelings she was not quite ready to admit. If she needed time to be ready for it, he was more than willing to give her all the time in the world. 

But no, Killian had to wait until she was ready; that was what he told himself when he fell back down, instead trying to focus on the warm, happy woman lying atop him, trying to focus on the sheer joy that she was once again in his arms, making him feel right for the first time in what seemed forever. 

He should have known it was but a brief respite, for if there was anything he ought to have learned in his too-long time alive, it was that he was not meant for things such as a normal life with the one he loved at his side. He learned it with mother, then father; Liam, then Milah. Then Bae. And now... well. He really ought to distance himself from Henry, for that worthy boy hardly deserved being shackled to the fate of death and darkness simply because Killian Jones dared care for what happened to him while trying to protect his life. 

One would think that by now he would know the simplest of truths: time was never on his side. He'd bided his time waiting to skin a crocodile, he'd bided his time waiting for Emma Swan to come to terms with her feelings. Tick tock, tick tock. Time was a crueler foe than any he'd faced over his very long years. Patience was a nastier curse than anything any sorcerer could conjure. 

And Killian was done with it, all of it. It was _time_ to seize his own fortune, to stop waiting. That was why he grabbed the dagger from the street once the darkness (the evening's darkness, not the other thing; not _her_ ) settled around them in a blanket of silence broken only by a quiet sob somewhere behind him. It was that small sound of Snow's that drove him to action; all he could think was _she's gone_ , _she left me_ , _again_ , _she saved us all_ , _again_ , _she is ever our Savior_ , _she is the One_ , _she loves me_ , _but she's gone_ , _but I love her_ , but _I did not tell her!_ , _why did I not tell her!_ , _why did she tell me now!_

All these bleak thoughts, berating him, the words beating a furious tempo in his brainbox as he stomped over to where the dagger lay. It did not even register that her name was now imprinted on the blade, etched as if it had always been there, as if it cared not that she was light and life, not the oppressive dark. Not the fucking Dark One. 

When Dave reached out and touched his shoulder he shrugged off the comforting touch, muttering something rude and cruel about not needing to be stabbed in the back again. He felt the remorse of it as he stalked off and cared not; not right now. He had no room to spare for the feelings of others. Instead, he cradled that dagger, as if it was the only thing left of her, ridiculous a thought as it may be. 

He wondered where she was. Whether the power of the Dark One had sucked her away to some dimension or realm or Nether-world. Whether he could summon her. He knew he could summon her, for that was how it all worked, wasn't it? Hold the dagger, hold the Dark One's will in the palm of your very hand. 

He had only the one, but it suddenly felt so inadequate, this hand, this flesh of his, to hold something as wondrous and terrible as the now-dark will of Emma Swan in the palm of his. It was all so very ridiculous. She's the one who held him in her hands, her heart, her eyes—any one of the parts of her that he so loved, and only if she willed it to be so. And now here he was, unworthy he was, yet he had the power to summon her whenever he wished. 

It was why he did not do so. He never wanted her to come because she must; he wanted her to come to him because she wished it. Even as her desperately uttered confession of love was something she felt she must do, something she did only because there was some part of her that believed they'd never see each other in lightness again, a part of her that did not believe they would find a way. So, in a final bid for absolution, she professed her love for him so that he would know how she felt, just in case. She wasn't ready, she was simply saying good-bye. A small detail, but an important one. 

So, he did not summon her, not just yet. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, perhaps traces of that ridiculous deckhand were still flowing through him (or had that mealy-mouthed, frightening boy always been inside? It was not lost on him that the innocence with which that man-child had been filled was familiar, was the same bearing of a young and fresh-faced lieutenant, eager to embark on a hero's journey with his courageous, revered, much admired elder brother at his side); whatever the case, Killian kept the Dark One's ( _Emma's_ ) dagger on him at all times, but he never used it, not once. 

That it tucked in perfectly next to his brace was not lost on him. The Charmings knew he had it, and he often caught them on the tail end of eying him furtively and with speculation, as though they thought he had the strength to pull the thing out and call their daughter to him. How little they knew him. 

Days turned to weeks to who the fuck cared, and all the while, despite the help of everyone in town, they weren't any closer to finding out what would remove the Dark One from his beloved. It's not that Killian had given up, not precisely: he was simply doing what he did best. Waiting. Biding his time for his moment to come. He'd long ago suspected and now accepted that for all his blustering and assurances otherwise to those around him, he was no man of action when it was important. 

He continued to ignore that his fear of failing she who must _not_ be failed kept him listless yet patient. 

And then one day he did not have to wait anymore. 

Emma came to him. 

He'd actually caught glimpses of her over the weeks, that flash of hair no longer woven of the finest threads that caught every stray bit of light but more like the rich damasks of the noblewomen he'd seen over the years, the women devoid of any real character, the women judged by what they brought to a marriage as deemed by their monetary worth: rich and thick, yes; beautifully woven, obviously of worth and of great trouble and effort, but once had, once your hand touched it up close, it was noted that the richness was flat and only lustrous in places; it wasn't like the lovely satin of before, when she had been dancing and light in his arms or welcoming him back from the dead, her hair shiny and simple and inviting his hand to plunge into it. No, it seemed the Dark One's beauty was a facade, some mantle she donned because she thought she ought to rather than actually felt it. 

One minute he was alone and the next she was there, standing before him quietly, watching him with dull, dark eyes that were the same yet not. He could not quite place what it was about them that filled him with despair; it was if she was there, looking at him behind a window pane in desperate need of cleaning. He'd been afraid that she would have the eyes of his old crocodile, large and reptilian and devoid of white, but they were not like that. His first thought was that he almost wished that she had the air of the old Dark One about her. That might make it easier on him. 

His next thought was that of course she did not make it easy on him. She never had. It was what had made it all worthwhile, right? 

“You have it,” she said, and her voice was different, at least. Slightly husky and much softer than he might have assumed. 

He knew what she referred to of course, and he did not bother to prevaricate, simply pulling the ( _her_ ) dagger from his sleeve and flipping it about neatly, trying not to see her name etched on the blade as the point arced toward him. He caught it, the wavy serrations resting against his palm harmlessly as he offered it to her, hilt first. 

She did not look at it, she looked at him. There was no expression on her face; no questioning, no confusion. Emma the Savior might have looked hurt, or perplexed, or possibly angry that Killian was standing in front of her, holding the one thing that had the power to destroy her like he did not want it any longer; Emma the Dark One simply stood there, patient and waiting. 

“You didn't use it.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

He had no answer to that; really, he did not. He felt strangely blank as he held out her dagger, or rather bogged down by the weight of it and everything. He had no answers for her, none of them did. How could he face her, how could he summon her, when he'd no idea how to get her back? 

_You fucking coward_ , came the unbidden thought, and for a moment he thought it was the Dark One, clouding his mind as ever it had, taunting and teasing him and trying to get him to act rashly, like he always had when it came to his vengeance. But no, it was simply the thoughts of Killian Jones, the ones that whispered horrifying truths when he was trying to sleep or when he was daring to love someone like Emma Swan. 

He risked another glance at her face and did his best not to look away, for she continued to assess him with that cold, blank expression, and he did not want her to think he could not look upon her thus. So he raised his chin in defiance of himself, his eyes steady as they met her stone-grey, unblinking gaze. 

“I miss you,” she said, and honestly, if he'd had any earthly idea that three little words such as those could make his chest fill with such a constricting amount of pain, he'd have used them to lay waste to centuries' worth of his enemies age ago. 

“Killian. Look at me.” 

“I am, love.” 

“You're really, really not, though.” _Emma, I never deserved your love_ , was the next thought in his mind. He ignored it or rather embraced it, steeling himself to really look in her eyes, for she was, of course, right. He was looking at her, but he wasn't seeing her. So he did. Met her gaze head-on, felt a little proud he didn't flinch from their direct and empty stare. 

He was still holding out the dagger but she hadn't looked at it once, and when she stepped forward and brushed past it to pull him to her, he hated himself for the brief moment of hesitation he felt before wrapping his arms about her, giving in to the impulse to bury his nose in her neck and breathe in deeply. She still smelled of Emma but more elemental, as if she'd recently struck a match, a pleasant burn tickling deep inside his nose, almost at his brain, and then there was _his_ Emma, her skin warm and comforting and so much like all the times they'd embraced before that he nearly wept with the longing of it all. 

And then he felt her hot tears on his own neck and her lips were there and she was murmuring nothings into his skin and he was swept up in it, his throat thick with emotions and cautious warnings but he shoved it all down in favor of the woman in his arms, Emma; his Emma, he'd swear it up and down and in defiance of the gods that she was back, that all the pain of the last few weeks was nothing more than the nightmares of a small, motherless boy who needed the comfort of a brother's love to chase away the nebulous fears that chased him as he slept. 

Then her mouth was on his and it was the same yet not; there was desperation in the way their lips came together, soft desperation and hesitant questioning, and he was unsure whether it was his desperation or hers. There were tongues deep and swollen where before they had been light and delighted; hands clutching and pressing on parts that had yet gone untouched. And then she was whispering into his mouth of her need, she needed him, she wanted him, she'd always wanted him. How could he say no, how could he refuse the woman who'd given him everything? 

He could not. 

Killian Jones had noticed over the years that there was a certain threshold in his mind, a tolerance that once breached there was no going back. It was what had driven him over the years in his quest for vengeance against the Dark One, and it was what made him give in to the Dark One now. He was suddenly tired of holding back, of thinking too much about all the ways in which he'd failed her and continued to fail her, and like that, he simply snapped and stopped thinking at all. He allowed the old pirate to take over, the one he always joked about in an off-hand way. _Milady, I've always been a pirate._ It hadn't been true most of the times he'd uttered it, simply a way to brush off the discomfort of the emotions that swirled beneath the veneer of the arrogant sonuvabitch he presented to the world. 

But now that pirate—the real one, the one who pillaged and plundered without forethought, with utter malice and derision—took over, leering at his tolerance, sneering at the emotional man holding a beautiful woman in his arms. She was looking at him and even the pirate could not bear the coldness of her eyes so he turned her around neatly, using both hand and hook and only sparing her skin from being marred by the point of that appendage because he knew it might ruin the ravishing. 

Clothes gone, pants undone; shortened breaths, expanding chests and widening stances; he had her bent over a table, a dark enjoyment curling his lips when her fingers dug into the wood. The gentleman in him went to make her ready and noticed with smug satisfaction that she was already quite wet, and he wanted to ask if she were always that way for him, but something stayed his mouth from doing so, so he put that mouth to work, raking that dull damask curtain of hair away with his hook and leaning over her body to press his lips to the base of her neck, feeling the shiver of gooseflesh underneath his bare chest as his erection prodded between her legs. _Killian_ , she whimpered as he pressed in, only holding himself carefully so that he could thoroughly enjoy the plundering, but when her arm snaked behind her to grasp at his thigh he lost control, sneering as he thrust forward. His hand was on her hip and his hook was still in her hair, the strands tangled about the cool metal as he held onto her and she held onto him. 

He paused but a moment to allow his lungs to push a large breath out, his chest resting on her back fully. He pressed his nose behind her ear and started to whisper things, words he did not understand, words he did not recognize as anything but simple declarations of love that he sullied with his sneer, drawing his hips back. She gasped, loud and heavy, her indrawn breath expanding her chest and jolting her body beneath him. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, the familiarity of her perfume and her skin like a drug that filtered across his brain, loosening his limbs and intensifying the thrill that was shaking his nerves loose. 

“Killian,” she murmured, her voice strangely flat for a woman about to be stuffed full of cock, and he hated it, knew that this was not his Emma beneath him and then acknowledging that was just fine and dandy, for he was not currently her Killian, either. Instead of answering he thrust forward, again and again, repeatedly, taking her with grim satisfaction and enjoying her cries of pleasure, over and over, her muscles insistent under and around him, his name pouring from her lips like profanity with each roll of his hips against her and like that, he was fucking the Dark One. 

He shifted his left elbow and her head drew back with the movement, his hook still lost in the lusterless locks of her hair. Her cries grew louder, sharper; pleading with him to not stop, right there, Killian, oh _yes_. And he himself was rather vocal, his lips still pouring out those disgusting words of love he didn't think would ever fall off his tongue when he was like this. 

And when she started to unravel in a rapturous shout of disbelieving glee he was already there, his entire body jerking so much that he knew there would be pain in his back and in his thighs when he awoke, if he ever awoke at all. 

It would seem that spending himself drained away the pirate for he almost gave in to the temptation to rest atop her satiated and limp form, still sprawled out across the table in his quarters. But he did not, could not; he didn't even want to face her, still, but he knew he must. He drew away, looking for his shirt to delay the moment, but when Emma turned around, still bare before him, her eyes large and watery but even now lacking the Emma sheen of vulnerable emotion, he wished he was anywhere but where he was. 

He never thought he'd see the day when that thought crossed his mind. 

She dressed quickly, her hair scattering every which way when she pulled her head through her sweater. She raised an arm and caressed his face and he did his best not to flinch from her touch, her fingers warm as they pressed into the scar there. She turned his face to look him right in the eye; her lips trembled slightly before curling into a soft smile. 

“Summon me when you're ready,” she said, and in the blink of an eye she was gone, the only evidence she'd ever been there being the table at angles with the rest of the room and the heavy feeling like he'd failed her once again settling in his heart. 


End file.
